Page 12 of This is a Kissing Book

I twiddle my thumbs.

My leg jitters.

I take a few deep breaths.

Sneaking a truffle ball, I let the sea salt and caramel milk chocolate melt on my tongue.

I wonder if it would be acceptable for me to set out my bowl of seasonal sweets—I went to the specialty candy store near my apartment and picked up summer-themed novelty gummies. I picture Mr. Sullivan sweeping them off my desk in one broad stroke, sending the sunshine and beach ball candies to the floor like sticky confetti. The office girlies and anyone who visited our department appreciated them.

Through the frosted glass entry to his office, I make out a dark silhouette—broad shoulders that are rigid with an authority that comes from working in the upper levels of the world. I imagine him as a man turned to stone by Medusa, whose harsh reality morphed him into a monster. I bet he doesn’t let himself eat so much as a hard candy. Not even a mint. His breath probably smells like sewer water. His mouth all puckered and cracked with dry rot.

I wrinkle my nose. Why am I thinking about his lips? Ew.

When L. Sullivan isn’t occupying his dragon lair, he’s likely working out in a gym until his knuckles bleed and his calluses are so thick, he’s lost all sensation in his palms.

The man is undoubtedly beastly.

My interoffice email pings. I find a provenance gap report request—Wendy says these are my specialty. I won’t argue with that. While I am fully capable of basic data entry, I lock in and track down the discrepancies before lunch.

My stomach has been making the squelching noise on and off all morning. How long do leftovers last? I originally made the tuna fish salad last Thursday. It’s Monday, so it’s probably okay. If only I could afford something from the Tasty Trolley. I’m glad Sullivan has kept his door shut. Just as I’m about to open my soft-sided lunch box, the intercom crackles.

“Juliette. My office.”

As if I forgot where I am and the precarious high wire I’m balanced on, I press the button and correct him. “It’s Juliana.”

I slap my hand over my mouth and blame low blood sugar. What have I done? If I have to make a run for it, the chocolate stash is coming with me. Priorities, people!

His voice booms through the little device. “Right. Julia. Get in here.”

My mother says it’s better to throw glitter and confetti at people than harsh words. Everyone knows how hard it is to remove glitter, so if someone is covered in it, they’re either a Vegas showgirl like her or got nasty and incurred her sparkly wrath. Unfortunately, I left all of my party supplies at home. This guy would definitely hate coming into contact with anything that sparkles. He’d probably wither up and vaporize on contact.

I look at my tuna sandwich and consider smooshing it into his face, but then I wouldn’t have anything to eat for lunch.

Shoes still squeaking, I push through the door. With his back to me, L. Sullivan stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. He doesn’t turn around. Just hovers there like a brooding gargoyle lord surveying his domain, wary of anyone who’d so much as breathe on his rare manuscripts and priceless artifacts.

“I would like you to work on an authentication report for the Eaton Boyd Collection, Julene.”

I simmer inside. My name isn’t that hard! I need to get a placard like Misha and Veronica had. I’ll write J-U-L-I-A-N-A on a piece of construction paper like I’m in kindergarten and tape it to my desk if I have to.

“Juliana,” I correct through a tight smile.

“The report, Julie.” He doesn’t turn around.

A coil inside springs loose. “I submitted it to you fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps if you’d bothered to look past your own reflection in that window, you might have noticed.”

My gaze skitters everywhere in the room except for his scowl—sharp jawline, intense eyes cataloging every inch of my every fidget, my every flaw. Dark hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it in frustration. The man is infuriatingly, devastatingly handsome in a cold, untouchable way that throws up a red flag of danger.

“Excuse me?” His eyebrows rise in a gesture that could freeze salt water on a sunny day.

“The Eaton Boyd report.” I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of my mother’s Vegas showgirl backbone and my father’s sometimes foolish dauntlessness. I’m equal parts pluck and spunk! “Sir, it’s there, along with the insurance valuations and provenance attestation. All completed while your other assistants were apparently competing for who could take the longest lunch break.”

Something flickers in those glacial eyes—surprise, maybe even the faintest hint of amusement before the ice wall slams back into place. “Misha and Veronica assisted with the transition, but they will continue aiding Ms. Drecken. Ultimately, it’ll just be you and me in this office.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Be that as it may, you need an attitude adjustment, Julana.”

I nearly choke on his audacity, but quickly recover and take aim with my glitter guns. “So do your recall skills. My name is Juliana.”

The silence stretches between us like a taut cable, crackling with enough tension to detonate the building.

Then a flirty discussion about chocolate filters back. A long conversation that was a great Friday distraction. A familiar voice.